


Some Scars May Fade

by barcabrony (freolia)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Atlético Madrid, Champions League, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, Major Character Injury, Real Madrid CF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-03-24 17:59:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3778078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freolia/pseuds/barcabrony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after the 2015 Champion's League Quarter-final first leg match between Real and Atlético Madrid.</p>
<p>After suffering an horrific injury during the first leg, Sergio is forced to sit out the rest of the season, and forced to discover things about himself he'd tried to bury.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: Unfortunately, I do not own any of the footballers mentioned in this fic, no matter how much I wish I did. 
> 
> Warning for some bad language, in case anyone is offended by that sort of stuff, and also that this story has not been beta-read. I apologise for any bad spelling/grammar, feel free to point them out in the comments :)

Mario looks around and swears under his breath. Real aren’t the demons they were in the first half (he can breathe a little easier), but they still look dangerous. Far too dangerous. He scans the pitch for the ball as the Atlético defence keeps out yet another attempt by Real Madrid, this one a pass from Benzema to Ronaldo. Although they have yet to concede, the Croatian has a sinking feeling in his gut; as though it is set that their Madrid rivals will score, it only being a matter of time, not effort. 

His attention is recaptured as the ball soars back up the pitch, a goal kick from Oblak, and he sprints forward. Griezmann chests the ball to the ground and crosses to him from twelve yards out. The ball curls through the air, a beautiful kick, before Ramos gets in the way. _Again._ Growling in frustration as the ball passes back to the midfield, he glares angrily at the Spaniard who seems oblivious to his ire as he runs to help his team. The Real defence have been tireless so far, Varane flawless, and Ramos almost perfect; it’s starting to get irritating. Outpaced and outmanoeuvred at every turn, Mario begins to hope for any goal at all; even Real scoring would shake the game up a little and bring a little urgency to their attempts. 

Seconds later, Turan intercepts the ball from that baby-faced Colombian in the midfield and Mario sprints up the pitch, kept onside by Varane. The Frenchman may be faster, but Mario is cleverer. A gleeful spring in his step as he can almost taste the goal that’s coming, he turns to keep an eye on the ball and watches in anticipation as the ball soars towards him, jumping to impact the ball with his head for a goal that even San Iker can’t save… 

And instead falling to the ground as a white-clad elbow smashes into his face. 

Stunned for a moment, he stands up straight away and whirls around to face the defender, oblivious to the blood pouring into his eye from a gash on his forehead. Instantly, there is a churning, infuriated sea of red and white surrounding them but Mario only has eyes for the Sevillan who stares back at him challengingly, not breaking his gaze. A medic pushes forward with wipes and plasters and Mario nudges him away, annoyed, but the man doesn’t stop so he gives in, allows himself to be dragged to the touchline where three people shove their bloody hands in his bloody face, and all he can think about is repaying this blood debt, making Sergio Ramos _scream_ in pain as his team fall to the Rojiblancos. 

He sits, fuming, as the medics clean up his face, and as soon as they leave him he sprints back into the game, intent on punishing Real Madrid. 

Unfortunately, he doesn’t get his chance for the next fifteen minutes and as things begin to look hopeless, his team finally manage to pull away convincingly from the Merengues and bring the ball closer to where Casillas awaits at the far end of the pitch. 

He slips up though, doesn’t notice the player behind him (he can’t even remember who it was, too angry at the time to even care), and suddenly he's seeing yellow and his name is in the book. Shit. 

So he takes a deep breath, reminds himself the team comes first, that beating these pathetic players into the ground is as good a revenge as any, and plays on. Until that stupid arsehole, Carvajal, tries to punch him and suddenly Mario has _had_ it with being punched and elbowed and fouled.

He falls to the floor in a desperate attempt to get attention and the referee ignores him, lets the game play on, and Mario is actually going to kill the next player who so much as fucking _nudges_ him, whether it’s his own teammate or the opposition. He doesn’t care anymore. He’s angry, and someone is going to pay. 

Things can only go downhill when Antoine is subbed off. Mario _knows_ he isn’t as fast as some of the defenders and has been relying on Griezmann to get the ball into the penalty box. Luckily, Fernando is quickly brought on and he seems energetic, hungry, running after every ball, and is so close to scoring when that Spanish bastard just _stands_ there in the penalty box, and Mario snarls as Torres falls without a whistle, ignoring the worried look he gets from Marcelo.

Play continues uneventfully, and as the game enters the final few minutes, there’s an air of urgency to the Atlético players which has been missing all game as they scramble desperately for a win. Fernando has brought some energy which just wasn’t there but the question of what they can actually do with the little time they have left is lying heavy and reluctant in the air. 

The seconds are ticking away, when Turan wrestles the ball away from Kroos and pushes forward like a madman, passing Marcelo and Varane who are unable to keep up with the sudden change in pace. He passes the ball to Fernando, who sees Mario waiting and passes with a divine kick, and he dashes off with it eagerly. 

He glances up; Ramos and Casillas are all that stand between him and victory, his foot and the swinging of the net, nothing and the Champions League. Because if they win here, Mario feels they could conquer the world. 

But in that moment where he dared to dream of victory, he’s looked up for too long; as he looks down, a well-timed tackle takes the ball from his feet and he’s left to dribble with air, tripping over his own lofty ambitions as his knees slide through the grass. 

Behind him, he hears a boot connecting with the ball as Ramos sends it back down the pitch, and he loses sight of good sportsmanship, of the fact that a draw isn’t too bad at this stage. He has taken too many blows this evening, and this is one hit too many; he was so, so close this time. He pushes himself up and spins around; the referee has followed the action back down the pitch and Ramos is just standing there, ten yards away, watching with his stupid assured posture, hands on his hips, legs slightly spread in a confident stance, and to Mario, his white kit is soon to be painted red. Nobody else is around; the other defenders have run off to get in on the action, the other forwards trying to steal back the ball. Casillas is twelve yards back. And he is _so_ eager to hear Ramos scream. 

He runs and slides in for the tackle as the whole stadium seems to falls silent in his ears.

_Snap._

* * *

Fernando has finally stolen the ball from Bale when he hears a faint scream of pain, followed by the whistle. Frowning, he puts his foot on the ball and looks up, irritated. He’s fairly sure _he_ did nothing wrong and is about to complain, when he notices the referee running up to the other end of the pitch. A Real player is lying on the ground, his arm thrown over his eyes, unmoving, the stark white standing out from the green of the pitch. He sees Casillas kneeling next to him and Mario jogging to the touchline a short distance away.

Rolling his eyes at the diving antics of Real Madrid, he dribbles the ball over with the other curious players. He thinks his heart stops for a moment when he eventually recognises who it is.

Because it’s _Sergio_ lying on the ground with Iker next to him, squeezing his hand and whispering in his ear as a team of medics run over, and at first he’s wondering what could have happened, before he notices the vibrant red splashed like paint over the white shorts of his best friend. 

And as he gets closer, he can feel the blood drain from his face to match the stain on the pitch because, _Jesus_ , Sergio is paler than he’s ever seen him in all the years they’ve known each other, and he’s not even rolling in pain, just lying there, hyperventilating, and there’s blood _everywhere_ , and when he looks to see where it’s coming from, he sees an unnatural angle, and something bloody and jagged sticking out from his leg-

He has to run to the edge of the pitch to throw up.

* * *

He was twelve yards away from Mandžukić when he saw him tense. Twenty two yards away from Sergio. He should have been able to do something; San Iker always saves the day. That's what they say anyway. But it turns out twenty two yards and an inability to see the worst in people is all it takes to foil Iker and so although he's the quickest to react when he sees Mandžukić running forward, he is still far too late; too late the one time it actually mattered. 

He watches in horror; Sergio turns his head at the last moment, surprise written over his face as in a nightmare, and Iker knows what's going to happen next before it does. There’s a moment when it seems the world just stops; all that exists to Iker is the look of sheer agony passing over the face of his nene and that one awful, echoing sound; _snap_. That one, nightmarish sound, louder than the roar of the crowd as Spain had lifted the World Cup, or the thud when the opposing team smashes the ball to the back of his goal. 

And then Sergio is screaming in agony, his face scrunched up as his tibia breaks under the force of the blow.

The sound pulls him from his stupor, and he runs to Sergio’s side where he has collapsed, his face already pale, panting from the shock. Grabbing his hand, his gaze wanders to his leg and he has enough time to see a splatter of blood and a puncture wound, a jagged stump, before he yanks his gaze away to stop nausea taking over. There are bigger problems, and they won't be helped by him freaking out.

Aware of another presence, he turns and sees Mandžukić hovering nearby, his gaze astounded as if he can’t quite believe what’s he’s done.

“You sick bastard! Go and get a medic!” Iker’s shout snaps him out of his daydream, and Mario looks disgustedly at what has become of Sergio’s leg before stumbling towards the touchline. Iker gestures desperately at the referee, before turning his attention back to Sergio who is whispering rapidly to himself, too quietly to hear. 

Leaning in, he mumbles soft reassurances to calm Sergio (at least he tells himself it’s for Sergio). “Sese, it’s ok, you’ll be ok. I-It’s not _that_ bad, I mean, it looks, a bit, not good, but, you’ll recover. You always do. You’re the strong one, remember? Brave and fearless, not afraid.” He continues to mutter, before a returned squeeze of his hand makes him focus on the terrified eyes of his teammate.

“Iker, it hurts. So much. Is it bad? Can I play again?” His voice sounds broken, afraid, and Iker is horrified to see tears in his eyes. Sergio never cries in front of others.

Iker stares at him, unable to speak for a moment. Would he play again? He shouldn’t lie, but surely the truth is worse. The injury is awful, the stuff of horror stories; this stuff shouldn’t - _doesn't_ happen in modern football.

Finding his voice, he stutters out, “O-Of course you will, nene. You and I, white runs in our veins. You may bleed red, but that’s not what keeps you going. There’s more than just blood and water in you, you’ll see.”

Sergio’s eyes flutter shut, and Iker panics. He can’t lose Sergio. Not Sergio, not when everyone else inevitably leaves. Squeezing his hand harder, he begs, “Sese, don’t close your eyes, shit, don’t do that, please, Sese, I can’t lose you, we’ve been through so much, not you, it can’t be you, anyone else, please…” 

His words quickly became meaningless, and Iker hardly noticed when the medics arrived with a stretcher, but he refuses to let go of Sergio’s hand, _can’t_ let go of Sergio’s hand, until Cris arrives and gently detaches him, and leads him away, whispering something in his ear which he can’t hear over Sergio's agonised scream, and that awful, encompassing, _snap_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy St. George's Day (if you're English), or Visca Sant Jordi! (if you're Catalonian/a Barca supporter). Obviously this applies to other people as well, I don't know where else this gets celebrated :)  
> Thank you everyone for all the kudos and comments, it makes me want to curl into a small fluffy ball. You're all lovely people.  
> Once again, this is un-beta'd, and I own no footballers, of which I'm glad if this I what end up doing to them.

When Sergio awakens, everything is white and comfortable, soft and fluffy. He briefly ponders whether this is the end for him, all he remembers being an intense pain from his leg, before beeping intrudes on his beautiful silence. Mild irritation creeps up on him at the sound, and he stares up at the ceiling, bored after being awake for barely a minute.

Realising he is in a hospital, his surroundings suddenly making sense, a quiet calm settles over the defender. Unable to feel pain (no doubt from heavy painkillers, he thinks to himself), he relaxes back on his pillow, and closes his eyes in order to try and go back to sleep, as he feels so very, very tired…

But movement from next to him drags him back to reality. And if he thought this was heaven, this would be the angel, Sergio thinks blearily to himself through a drugged haze; as bleached hair and the warmest brown eyes he can remember suddenly blink to attention from his own slight movement, Sergio can’t remember feeling happier to see Fernando Torres in his life. Mainly because he can’t actually remember anything, but he’s still happy to see him. He thinks.

“Sergio? Are you awake?” Fernando whispers, voice disbelieving and crackly from sleep.

Sergio ponders this. He _thought_ he was, but now that Fernando is asking, he realises he doesn’t know. After all, having Fernando next to him is almost too good to be true. And he does feel very blurry about a lot of things at the moment…

“I think so?” He replies, trying to cock his head to the side, but his body isn't ready to respond. He ends up doing an awkward head-wiggle-thing, and gives up at the confused stare Fernando is giving him. Didn’t matter anyway.

There’s something interfering with his brain; he can’t think straight, and every time he tries to put a sentence together, he forgets the start by the time he gets to the end. He gives up on the idea of formulating more than two words: “What happened?”

Fernando stares at him in wonder, like he can’t believe he’s actually speaking, and Sergio does a mental eye roll (his body isn’t responding well enough to actually try it himself). It’s hardly the first time he’s injured himself since they were kids. He doesn’t understand what the big deal is. It can’t be that bad, surely?

“Don’t you remember? We’re still not really sure; nobody’s spoken to Mario yet, but it looked like…”

And suddenly Sergio remembers, remembers the surprise as he saw the man running towards him, the shock as he realised what would happen, the inability to move quick enough, the sudden, intense pain, and more than anything that awful sound that clears his brain like a snap of the fingers, and he is suddenly aware of the weight on his leg from a heavy plaster cast, and the beginnings of pain making their way back into his system like a drug. The mention of the name is enough to make him tremble, and he closes his eyes to try and hide his panic, an involuntary whimper escaping.

Thankfully Fernando doesn't notice, still talking, something about surgery and open tibia fractures, how lucky he is to escape infection, and Sergio just stares at him, as only one phrase registers. He’s going to miss the end of the season. Probably the start of the next. He’ll miss the Champion’s League. He’s not stupid as some people like to say, he knows Real’s defence will suffer without him. He’s already missed a month because of his ankle. They may as well give up now, and watch as Barcelona win another double, if not a treble. That thought alone makes him want to punch the wall and see how nicely a broken hand would go with his leg.

But the main thing is that he won’t play football for at least six months, not for Madrid, nor for Spain, and for the second time in two days, Sergio can feel a pressure building at the back of his eyes and he desperately tries to blink away the oncoming tears as Fernando keeps talking, unaware. He eventually drifts back into an uneasy sleep, not noticing the longing glance from his friend.

* * *

Cristiano sits in the hospital cafeteria across a table from Iker. It had taken him hours to pull the captain away from the hospital room, and he is now sat slumped in the plastic chair, head rested on the table in misery. He would say something, offer physical contact, but he knows that any attempt at comfort will be ignored at best, and result in a fight at worst, and he hasn’t got the energy for an angry Iker right now. He is _brutal_ when he’s mad.

Unless the person is Sergio, Iker is not up to human interaction.

Cris knows that Sergio and Iker have a very close relationship, different and special to the rest of the team. He thinks back to the Mourinho era, when the two would spend hours huddled whispering to each other, the unbreakable team. Not even the Portuguese tyrant could break what the two have. 

Cris knows that the two captains practically have the crest tattooed on their souls, and there is nothing which can pull the two apart. Iker and Sergio are inseparable, and he shudders to think what Iker will be like for the next few days, weeks, maybe even months as the other man will be forced to stay at home.

They haven’t been told the recovery required of Sergio’s injury yet, but it looked horrific. Cris can’t remember seeing anything like it before, not on the pitch at least, and he has to take a large gulp of his coffee to repress the shudder at the memory.

Sergio had been rushed to hospital after he’d been taken off, while the teams had to play out the rest of the game. Neither team had been able to focus for the last eight minutes of stoppage time, Mandžukić and Torres looking haunted, and Cris and Iker more worried about Sergio than winning the first leg. The game had finished in a goalless draw, and the players had quickly left the pitch. Even the crowd hadn’t enjoyed the ending of the game; many had never seen such a serious injury, and the fact it had been committed by one of their own served to kill the mood quite effectively.

Cris and Iker had immediately left for the hospital, Cris promising to inform his teammates as soon as he knew what was happening, Iker only focused on getting back to Sergio. They’d allowed Fernando to share a ride, and the man had sat silently in the back, worry easily equalling that of Iker’s evident on his face. He’d run off as soon as they’d arrived, and the two Real players had arrived at the room they’d been given directions to, only to find him already installed in a chair. He hadn’t given them a glance when they’d arrived, focused only on the soft rise and fall of his best friend’s chest; Cris could almost see the forward’s chest moving in synchronisation.

Cris had left him by Sergio’s side when he’d forcefully removed Iker; he didn’t know Fernando Torres very well, but knew of the relationship between him and Sergio. He would be the best person to see Sergio when (if) he woke up.

Glancing around the small room, Cris pulls out his phone and sends off a quick text to Pepe: _‘Sergio out of surgery, doesn’t sound good, open tibia fracture. He was lucky not to get infected. Will need months off at least.’_

He doesn’t add many details, as he’s simply not in the mood. Right now, he simply feels… tired. Of everything. Worn out, and stretched too far. Football is cruel; while it rewards the devotees, sometime Cris feels it demands too much. One of his closest friends is seriously injured, another is inconsolable, and he can’t do anything to change the situation. He feels powerless, and the one thing Cristiano Ronaldo really hates is feeling powerless. He’d promised himself when he was younger that he wouldn’t be powerless again, would work and work and work. It paid off, and no one can match the three-time Ballon D’Or winner in dedication and sacrifice. 

Well. He knows there’s one person who understands how he’s feeling right now, who always gets him, only one who possibly could in the world, and this thought is the lone motivator for him to unlock his phone once more and scroll through his contact list until he gets to _L_.

He hits call, and holds the phone to his ear, resenting the way his arm is shaking slightly. He _needs_ this call, but is embarrassed by his own weakness; it's an admonition of defeat in his eyes, but he can't see another option right now.

The connection comes through, followed by a tired voice, and Cris can feel the tension leave his muscles at the sound of the speaker. The distance across Spain vanishes, and if Cris closes his eyes, he can almost imagine his lover next to him.

* * *

Fernando glances exhausted at Sergio who had eventually fallen asleep, worn out from the operation and the news. It was heart-breaking to see his friend’s hopes shatter, but he’s glad he was the one to deliver the news. Maybe it softened the blow to hear it from a friend.

Knowing he's _just_ a friend, Fernando feels a wrench in his chest as long-buried feelings attempted to make themselves known. Ignoring the pain in his heart (he forsook this when he moved to England), he silently leaves the room. He has a call to make.

Scrolling to _M_ on the touch screen, the very sight of the name aggravating him, he hits call and paces along the corridor.

It rings a couple of times, before a sleepy voice emerges from the tinny speaker on Fernando’s phone.

“Bok?” The voice asks in Croatian, and the sound of the voice makes Fernando’s muscles tense in preparation for a fight. He has to force himself to relax; maybe it’s not what he thinks. There’s a part of him which won’t believe his teammate could do something so terrible, that _anyone_ could do something so terrible.

“Mario. What the hell happened yesterday?” Fernando responds, barely repressing the growl which threatens to escape.

There’s a long silence from the other end of the phone, before he hears the awkward reply in Spanish.

“I got angry. I know, it was terrible, and I feel awful-”

Fernando doesn’t hear the end of the sentence as he throws his phone at the wall in rage. The screen smashes, and there is silence as Fernando stares at the shattered remains, fuming.

His best friend is going to miss months of his life, because that savage couldn’t control himself? There’s a very strong temptation to scream in frustration, but Fernando keeps his mouth shut – he doesn’t want to risk waking Sergio. God knows he needs the rest after what he’s been through.

Pacing angrily, he walks to the cafeteria. Maybe food will calm him down.

* * *

Iker groans; Cris has been on the phone for the last half an hour, and while he doesn’t mind who he’s using to distract himself, knows he would do the same thing himself if he was Cristiano, his mindless chatter is getting on his nerves. He _had_ sympathised; everyone needed someone to speak to, to get things off your chest, and he understands that he won’t understand so much of what Cristiano has to deal with on his own. The two of them have very different problems to face in the media, but this is getting ridiculous.

The hospital food was sufficiently terrible to distract him briefly, but now he’s in a cycle of worrying himself to death over Sergio, and planning Cristiano’s slow and painful death, along with the bastard who is making him giggle like _that_.

Looking up, he notices Fernando stomping into the cafeteria; his anger is obvious from across the room, and a voice in the back of his mind worriedly tells him to go and check on Sergio, the same voice which tells him which way to dive when saving a goal. While he trusts Fernando, there is nobody apart from himself who he can really trust with Sergio, and the thought of what might have happened for Fernando to be that angry begs him to leave quietly.

Iker reprimands himself for forgetting, for allowing Cristiano to pull him away, and quickly stands up. He has to go and see Sergio. The thought repeats like the beat of his heart, and he gets up to exit the cafeteria, ignoring Cris who doesn’t bother responding to his absence. Resisting the urge to run, Iker arrives at the door of the private room and pushes it open quietly, before sinking into the chair next to the bed.

He sighs sadly, staring at his vice-captain. Sergio is asleep but obviously troubled, as his usually-cheerful face is strained, and his fists clench and unclench sporadically.

Iker is about to wake him from his dreams, when he hears Sergio whisper, trapped in his nightmares.

“Iker, I need you, please, don’t leave. Not you as well…” He trails off, his eyebrows furrowing in his sleep, and Iker can feel his heart breaking a little bit for all the pain the man has already suffered. He still sees the awkwardly cheerful teenager when he looks at Sergio, and it infuriates him how someone could even _dream_ of hurting him.

He leans over and kisses Sergio’s forehead, and holds his hand, gently whispering reassurances that he won’t ever leave, until his face relaxes and his breathing evens out.

And Iker knows he won’t; knows that he couldn’t ever leave his nene.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the late update! Exam season is conspiring against me, and I'm just generally upset about Stevie and Xavi. But here we are! Thank you to everyone who left kudos *manic smile*. You're all wonderful people.

_**Madrid Derby Turned Horror Story** _

_By Dani Rodriguez_

_Tuesday evening saw the much-anticipated Champions League quarter final match between Atlético Madrid and Real Madrid, the seventh time the two teams have faced this season. The first leg, at home to the Rojiblancos, saw Real Madrid field a fierce, competitive side as the home team seemed to struggle to keep up during the first half. A missed Gareth Bale shot early on would have deservedly put the visitors ahead, but a fantastic save from Slovenian goalkeeper Jan Oblak saved the home side from having to overcome a deficit._

_The match seemed more even during the second half; Real Madrid appeared to have calmed down while Atlético upped their game, but the second half was also dreadful to watch for a number of reasons. Early on, a seemingly unintentional aerial collision between Real defender, Sergio Ramos, and Atlético forward, Mario Mandžukić, left the number nine with blood and an enraged expression on his face as he went to the touchline to get cleaned up, and no doubt left the defender with a sore elbow._

_This was not the last altercation for the forward though, as later that evening right-back Dani Carvajal appeared to punch and even bite the Croatian. Although no punishment was given at the time, many believe Carvajal should be retrospectively penalised for the action._

_Antoine Griezmann was substituted for Raúl García, a mistake which may have been costly as the Frenchman, although semi-lethargic for much of the match, did not pick up a yellow card like his strike partner. Considering what followed, taking off Mandžukić may well have been the wiser option._

_Both Sergio Ramos and Raúl García were booked in the 80th minute for a bad tackle and a dispute respectively following the event, before Koke was substituted in the 83rd minute for Fernando Torres, who looked energetic straight away and had the potential to score; the final score may well have been different had he been brought on twenty minutes earlier._

_During the final few minutes of the game, Mandžukić appeared close to scoring, when a perfectly-timed tackle from Ramos removed the danger to Real’s goal. Enraged by this for whatever reason, Mandžukić ran forward in a fit of anger, driving his boot into the lower leg of Ramos from behind in a disgusting display of unsporting behaviour. As the referee didn’t see the incident no punishment was handed out at that point; however, a heavy penalty is expected to be placed on the player._

_The sight was gruesome; an injury like that one hasn’t been seen for a while, and anyone who watched the game is unlikely to forget. The tibia was clearly broken and punctured the skin. We’re still awaiting reports on how serious the injury is, but Ramos is almost certainly going to miss the end of this season, and quite likely the start of the next, dealing Real’s chances of winning any silverware this season a heavy blow. After missing most of February with a calf injury, Ramos’ absence left a large hole in the reigning European champions’ defence; indeed, last time this fixture played out, the absence of Ramos was perhaps part of the reason for the 4-0 defeat._

_It’s reported that Fernando Torres, close friend of Ramos, was seen vomiting at the side of the pitch after witnessing the injury, and Casillas, the first on the scene, appeared traumatised after the match._

_Social media quickly filled with messages and tweets condemning the actions of Mandžukić, such as this one from English pundit, Gary Lineker: “Absolute disgrace from Mandžukić. Best wishes for a speedy recovery to Ramos, no one deserves that. Least of all a player who hasn't put a foot wrong recently.”_

_The match was left to play out, although neither team looked in any mood to continue playing, and the result was a goalless draw. Neither team lingered on the pitch; Ronaldo and Casillas were reportedly seen running to one of Ronaldo’s luxury cars immediately after the whistle blow._

_Although Real are surely mourning the loss of their vice-captain along with us, current league leaders, FC Barcelona, will likely be celebrating the blow to their greatest rivals. Lionel Messi especially will surely be glad that Ramos has been removed from the picture; after a brilliant season, the defender had been mentioned in more than one conversation concerning the prestigious Ballon D'Or._

_**Selected player ratings:**_

_**James Rodriguez: A-** A strong performance from the Colombian midfielder, who had a beautiful free kick taken from the outside of the foot. Could easily have gone in too, if not for a brilliant save by Jan Oblak._

_**Gareth Bale: C** Unlucky to have his goal stopped, but he should have done better, and being largely anonymous for large spells of the game did not help either. _

_**Sergio Ramos: A** A particularly strong performance from the centre-back, although a mistake in the first half almost let in a goal. Extremely unfortunate with his early elbow on Mandžukić, which seems to have earned his ire. We hope he recovers soon, but with many doubting his ability to play at all after today, a quick recovery seems out of the question._

_**Jan Oblak: A+** Made some brilliant saves to deny James Rodriguez and Gareth Bale, and quick reflexes and a good eye saved Atlético on a number of occasions in a man of the match performance._

_**Fernando Torres: B+** Only given the last fifteen minutes, but was energetic and goal-hungry until the tackle, which is understandable under the circumstances. Might have scored had he been brought on earlier, and deserved a goal for his effort. _

_**Mario Mandžukić: U** Absolute disgrace to the game. He seemed promising early on, but that tackle had no place anywhere, let alone on a football pitch on a defender who didn’t even have the ball. Deserves a suspension to the end of the season at the very least, if not a permanent football ban._

_**UPDATE:** It has since been released that Sergio Ramos suffered an open tibia fracture from the tackle. Although he was lucky to escape infection from the wound, his surgery is complete, and he is currently on rest. Return is estimated to be in around 6-8 months at the earliest, with 10-12 months looking more likely. If Real Madrid had any lingering hopes about the early return of their central defender, these have certainly been laid to rest now. Investigations have also begun into the infamous tackle by a disciplinary FIFA board. A suspension seems too light of a punishment for the act to us here at HalaHeroes.com; FIFA representatives have yet to make further comment. Leave your thoughts in the comments section._

_**Next article: 6 reasons why Cesc Fabrégas is brilliant, and FC Barcelona were fools to let him go.**_

* * *

Recovery is never easy. Sergio knows this, has already spent too much of this season recovering from his calf injury, has spent too much of his life getting into fights protecting people _not_ to know this, but still. He likes to think he is independent, and not even being able to _walk_ on his own is just… humiliating. He can’t even get up to get his phone from the coffee table on the other side of the room, and sitting down all day is slowly killing him. Sergio was never meant to spend long off his feet, whether he's laughing, dancing, or kicking a ball.

The sun is shining lazily outside his front door, and Sergio almost imagines it's mocking him. He’s always loved the sun, it’s purifying warmth, the way he’s always felt like his misery is exposed and burnt away in the glorious light. The sun has never left him for long, always returning like clockwork, but now it taunts and teases him. The light reminds him of what he cannot have, the distant warmth is a cruel joke. 

It’s only been a week, and the prospect of the next two months being spent like this, his leg wrapped in a heavy cast, hobbling about on crutches, is almost enough to cause him to consider giving up football. And it may not be up to him if the internet articles he reads when he's on his own have any truth to them.

And sure, those thoughts are pushed away when he watches footage of last year’s Champions League, of the 2010 World cup, of winning the 2008 and 2012 European Championships; seeing Iker lift all those trophies with his teammates and sometimes with his own hand grasped on the other side makes his heart ache for the wind rushing in his face, the thud of a boot connecting with a ball, the texture of grass under his legs as he makes a tackle, the feel of silver clasped in his fist after winning a trophy - after proving he’s the best in the world at what he does. Giving up football would be like tearing out his heart; the sport keeps him alive, breathes in his lungs, streams through his blood. All of which brings him back to his frustration at not being able to move his leg. 

Luckily, Fernando and Iker have made it their personal mission to make sure he has anything and everything he needs; this in turn, serves to slowly drive him crazy. Not being able to do anything is one thing; making people run after him is a whole other story, and he _hates_ it; he’d sworn to himself a long time ago that he would never have to depend on people again and here he is, doing exactly that.

He’s snapped at them a couple of times; ordered them to get out, leave him alone, that he’s a grown man and a world champion footballer. He doesn’t need their help, and he certainly doesn’t want it. 

At which point, Iker gives him his captain look until he shuts up, and makes him a cup of coffee. Iker has been around as much as he can, but with the second leg fast approaching, he is required at training, press conferences and a million other things which Sergio has never had the patience for.

Fernando just rolls his eyes, ignores his whinging, and carries on with what he was doing, which is usually something so mundane like cleaning or cooking that Sergio often can’t believe his eyes; Fernando is magic in his eyes, and has been since the first time they met. It’s so strange to see him be so _normal_ , and it’s becoming a common site; Fernando wasn’t a regular starter for his team anyway, and Sergio often feels that his house is not just his own anymore. 

He feels he doesn’t understand Fernando anymore, as though staring at the man is like looking through misted glass. He gets that they’re supposed to be best friends for everyone else because those are labels which they understand; but there’s been a rift between them for a very long time now, and building the bridge means they’ll have to tear down the walls they’ve built up between themselves to make the crossing.

Their relationship has always been different and indescribable, but now it's in an awkward, unsure way. Sorting it out is going to take a lot of strength to admit things which were left behind years ago, in the songs of a fiery eighteen year old and the smiles of a freckled face, on trampled training pitches and late night phone calls.

Sergio knows he isn’t ready for that, knows he is practically living in a castle of his own insecurities and lies. He doesn’t want to admit that he’s lonely, ghosting through the corners of his own mind; that being alone is hard, but letting in someone else is so much harder.

So for now, they let the chasm gape between them and threaten to swallow them whole.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this chapter, I changed the CL semi-finals, so Real drew Bayern Munich and Barcelona drew Juventus. Bale, Benzema and Modric were still out at this point as well :) Thanks for reading!

It’s been a month since Sergio was released from hospital, and Fernando thinks he is slowly being driven to insanity. Getting Sergio to stay off his leg is like…

Actually no; there’s no analogy or comparison which can accurately describe this situation. Keeping Sergio off his leg is the single hardest, most frustrating, most unrewarding task in the history of human civilisation, and Fernando is feeling a constant urge to drug his food with horse tranquiliser just so he’ll stop trying to move for more than fifteen minutes.

More than once, he’s found him trying to stand on his leg without his crutches to see if it can bear any weight yet, and there was one terrifying incident where he’d found his friend leaning against the sofa on the floor, face screwed up in agony; later he’d found out that he’d been trying to reach his phone from the coffee table, and was ‘bored of his crutches’. Trying to tell him off was like kicking a puppy, and the look in Sergio’s eyes was heart-breaking; Fernando couldn’t do anything but apologise and make him a mug of hot chocolate while booking a doctor’s appointment to check he hadn’t damaged anything too badly. 

The upcoming match against Bayern Munich in the Champion’s League really isn’t helping his energy levels either; Fernando himself has been in a general bad mood since a late strike from Hernández knocked Atlético out of the competition, and his friend’s inability to play and help his team is turning Sergio into a bloody _demon_ to look after. He alternates between staring moodily at the wall, snapping at everyone and anyone, and being determined to make a miracle recovery by walking around on his own – which goes about as well as someone might expect. Fernando can’t remember the last time he got more than three hours of sleep and the fact he is still alternating between playing and sitting on the bench for league matches is flat-out exhausting.

But if Sergio is a pain to put up with, he is _nothing_ compared to the monster that is Iker Casillas.

Fernando imagines the two were conjoined twins in a past life, and he curses whatever deities there may be that he is the one who has to deal with them now.

There wouldn’t be a problem, because he knows how close they are, except that Iker is _constantly_ miserable at the sight of Sergio’s cast. And his misery is upsetting Sergio, because he hates when Iker is upset. This ends up exhausting Fernando, as he is constantly attempting to shepherd Iker out of the house to prevent Sergio being miserable, and much as Iker would like to ignore, he has a career and a team to look after (even if he argues the team is nothing without Sergio). But most of all, an upset Sergio means a restless Sergio, and Fernando knows he will move more if he’s restless and slow down his recovery, resulting in even _more_ upset and restlessness.

On top of that, if he isn’t in the house, Iker is calling, texting, skyping, _anything_ , to check up on Sergio and inform Fernando that he’s doing something wrong; in fact, Sergio should apparently just go and stay in Iker’s house since Fernando is so incompetent, so they can get married and ride off into their perfect white fairy-tale ending surrounded by trophies, while Fernando is left in the dust.

So maybe he imagined a little bit of that. But he knows he isn’t imagining the jolt in his stomach every time he walks in to find them laughing together at a private joke in the living room, or the way they curl up together on the couch and fall asleep like brothers do when they’re children and nothing matters except football and fun. 

Fernando can’t help but feel that it should be him making Sergio smile, and him finishing Sergio’s sentences like a cheesy rom-com, even if he knew what he was sacrificing when he went to Liverpool so long ago. 

All the same, Fernando really doesn’t like this idea, _hates_ this idea of just ‘Iker and Sergio’, but all he gets when he tells this to Sergio is a confused stare.

So in the end, he just tells Carlo that Iker is stressing him out and slowing Sergio’s recovery; Iker is warned that he'll be playing less unless he stops skipping training to spend time with Sergio, and satisfied that peace has been restored, Fernando sleeps a little easier (he’s fairly certain that he’s only dreaming of Iker at his window with a sharpened knife and a bloody sack when he goes to sleep).

But of course even without Iker, this is Sergio Ramos he’s trying to look after part-time, and so in desperation, Fernando digs his old guitar out of his loft, remembering that Sergio broke his own one after getting drunk at one of Pepe’s parties.

Luckily, this seems to help; now when he visits Sergio, the first thing he hears is a gentle strumming and humming, and the sound takes him back years, when the two of them sat in an isolated tree hours after national team practice was finished, Sergio with his guitar and his fiery heart, Fernando with his long hair and chest bursting with emotion, and he remembers the sensation of being young and falling in love all over again. 

Electricity tingles all the way to his feet at the thought and his eyes widen in shock as he realises it for the first time. He loves Sergio. Maybe he always has, right from the start, when their eyes met for the first time across a muddy training pitch. But with so many burned bridges, it might be too late to do anything now.

* * *

_**Real Madrid out of the Champions League** _

_Posted by Lucas Saballo, 13th May 2015, 23:32_

_It’s official. The reigning champions have been eliminated after a gruelling two legs against Bayern Munich. The German team kicked off with a win at the Allianz in the first leg, decimating the Spanish side 2-0, before continuing to win the away game 2-1, with a final aggregate score of 4-1. Although Real put up much more resistance in the second leg, especially Cristiano Ronaldo who had a phenomenal work rate, the gaps in the side were obvious, and it was clear who were the better team._

_Modric, Bale, and Benzema were all absent from this evening’s match-up due to injury, and the defence never seems quite as strong without Sergio Ramos, who is still recovering from a tibial fracture. Pepe and Varane put up a strong, albeit undisciplined performance in the central defence against determined Bayern strikers, with the Portuguese man sent off in the second leg after a badly timed tackle on Thomas Müller. The two have a history together, after Pepe was also sent off after head-butting the German for simulating in the World Cup last summer._

_Iker Casillas was fantastic over both legs, and made some brilliant saves which were ultimately in vain as the Munich-based team were relentless with 30 shots on goal in the first leg alone. Despite losing both games, this goalkeeper is very much in form right now, something which will be a pleasure for all Real Madrid fans to see._

_Cristiano Ronaldo was our man of the match for the second leg. Scoring the lone goal for Real Madrid with a beautiful bicycle kick, the winger was determined throughout the game, and his work rate cannot be faulted. Unfortunately, a weak midfield and inaccurate strike partners let him down, and it’s in games like these where the fans can really appreciate how much Luka Modric and Karim Benzema bring to the team._

_The three attacking players are set to return over the next few weeks, as their injuries were minor. However, while there has been no news on Ramos, his return this season has been ruled out for certain. More worryingly, players who break bones often never quite return to the players they once were, some never returning at all. Hopefully this doesn’t apply to the talented Spaniard, but if I were Carlo Ancelotti right now, I would be looking into buying a new centre back to take the pressure off Pepe and Varane. That is provided the Italian keeps his job; last year’s success with the Champions League bought him some time, but Real Madrid are notoriously unforgiving with their managers and a failure to win the league will almost certainly see him moving on after this season to a more sympathetic team._

_Bayern Munich will go on to face Barcelona in the predicted final of the competition, after Madrid’s rivals destroyed Juventus 6-3 on aggregate. The Catalan side seem unstoppable right now, with all three members of the front line firing on all cylinders, Messi especially being in some of the best form of his career. Many people have them as favourites to win, and a continental treble is looking very achievable for FC Barcelona right now._

* * *

May is the worst month for Sergio, without a doubt. Iker and Fernando had tried to keep him away from football, blocked the TV channels, confiscated his laptop after he’d started reading the news articles about his injury and doubtful return, the way he’d never be the same player, the comments from his critics, and the euphoria of Barça fans at the downfall of their great rivals.

But football is in his blood, white running with the red in his veins and a crown burned on his chest; in the end there’s nothing that can stop him from his one true passion. 

To be honest, he’d almost been expecting the result from the mood of his friends; Iker has been sulking through the house for a week, and Fernando just seems generally miserable. That doesn’t stop it hurting like a kick to the stomach though. Real Madrid had lost out at the semi-finals to Bayern Munich. In the end, Xabi had worked his magic in midfield (even if it was for the wrong team), and the absence of Luka, Gareth, and Karim was noticeable. Cristiano was brilliant, but a diminished midfield, lack of good strike partners and a hole in the defence had been too many obstacles for Real to overcome. Despite the masterclass in bicycle kicks delivered by Cris at the Bernabéu (celebrated with a thumbs up for the cameras which briefly warmed Sergio’s heart), the 4-1 aggregate score line was evidence of how the team was suffering.

Meanwhile, Barcelona had continued past Paris Saint-Germain in style by drawing Juventus in the semi-finals. Cristiano had lost his spot on the top of the score board as Messi had smashed in a hat trick, followed by a brace in the away leg. The cannibal had assisted three of them, and Sergio came very close to breaking his newly-recovered laptop after reading yet another article gushing about the South American wonder team, the MSN. 

The post-match talks were centred on the three missing attacking players of Real, the quality of Iker and Manuel Neuer, and the "brilliance" of Lionel Messi, and Sergio couldn’t help but resent that everyone seemed to have forgotten him, as the excitement turned to the final everyone had expected.

The league was pretty much a done deal by this stage; a loss to Sevilla followed by a narrow win at Valencia had the team on edge; any mistakes now would make the slim chance they had left impossible, and with only two more games and a four point gap between the two top teams, a trophy was beginning to seem incredibly unlikely this season.

Worst of all, every day there is a new article talking about his future inability to play. They flood the internet, and Sergio can’t help but read them, to the point where he is believing it; maybe he _won’t_ ever play again. What if he’s on crutches for the rest of his life? He might never kick a ball again and just the thought of that makes him want to shut himself in a dark room and never talk to anyone again.

Sergio sighs and rubs his eyes. Iker and Fernando are both at training. Although both teams were out of the Champions League, the struggle for a qualifying spot for next season was still alive and kicking. The tension when both are together in the same room makes Sergio feel sick at the thought that he will have no further impact this campaign.

He is alone again and he just feels… tired. The sensation is wrong and unfamiliar to him on so many levels. Sergio has always been the optimist, the first to jump up and start dancing and the last to fall asleep. But he can’t help feeling useless now; he can’t help his team, and they seem to have left him behind. He can’t even help himself right now. He stares down at his cast in something akin to hatred. He feels pathetic for picking up such a serious injury at such an important time. Resentment lying as heavy as iron in his veins for Barcelona, football, himself, Sergio stares up at the ceiling, and lets out a long, heavy sigh.

Two more months, and he can have his cast off.

Two more months.

* * *

Iker is woken at eleven in the evening by his phone vibrating noisily on the bedside table. It’s the 30th of May, and he’d turned in early, not wanting to deal with the result of the Copa del Rey. It seems unavoidable, what’s going to happen, but he’s going to avoid it for as long as he can anyway. Maybe if he doesn’t hear the result, he can believe it hasn’t happened yet. At least Xavi will be happy…

Sighing, he rolls over and clumsily grabs his phone, his brow furrowing when he sees that it’s Sergio.

“Nene? What’s going on?” He asks, pushing himself upright, voice heavy with sleep and worry.

The voice on the other end is clearly drunk, and very, very upset. “They fucking won, Iker! Why did they have to win? How can somebody that short, score? It shouldn’t work, in, you know, physics, and, stuff…” The voice trails off, and Iker sighs. He should have known this would happen. Now he just had to try and minimise the damage.

Putting the phone back to his ear, Iker gently replies, “Are you on your own Sese? I’ll be over soon, don’t drink anymore, sí?”

The voice is silent for a moment, and Iker takes this as confirmation to hang up, when he hears softly, “I loved him, Iker. I would have fought the world for him. Why did he have to go?”

The goalkeeper doesn't respond, because he doesn't have an answer. He doesn’t know how he’s going to be able to look Fernando Torres in the eye without hurting him after hearing the unspoken tears and the crack in Sergio’s voice.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the shorter chapter this time, wanted to get this out before I have to think about exams again :). On that note, I'm not sure when I'll next be able to post, but I'll try to be quick.

Nobody mentions the Champion’s League final to him, and that’s absolutely fine with Sergio. It’s not like he watched it or anything, because he was specifically told not to. And maybe he enjoyed the moments when Gerard tripped Xabi (or is it Judas?), or Messi was sent flying by Schweinsteiger a little _too_ much, but none of that changed the final result. Or didn’t change it, because he obviously hadn’t seen it; he’s being a good boy and staying away from football for now, like Iker said. 

But seriously, whoever called Bayern Munich the best team in Europe either needs their head examining, or needs their mouth sewn shut to stop them jinxing anything else. 

3-0. Fucking _ridiculous._

Iker is attending a chair meeting as captain, and Fernando has flown to Manchester to spend time with Juan since the league has finished; Sergio is sitting in Cristiano’s Ferrari on a warm July morning in Madrid, on the way to the hospital to have his cast removed and he can already taste his freedom. His crutches are on the back seat, but he can’t see them for now as his head is tilted back, enjoying the sky above him through his aviators and the warm air rushing over his face is wonderful, carrying away his troubles.

Over the past few months he’s barely been outside, and now he’s falling in love with the Spanish capital all over again, just like in his first weeks here from Seville when Iker had been assigned as his guide. He can still remember laughing and joking with him as they walked to the Plaza de Cibeles, with the taste of magic in the air. His dreams were those of a teenager back then, invincible, golden and glorious, of white, red and gold, of success with Real and Spain, of finding true love. The first two came true, the third is tainted and stained red with all that he has lost. His thoughts are drifting in a direction he isn’t particularly comfortable with, back to a time he tried hard to forget, before they’re interrupted by Cristiano.

Apparently he’s been talking for a while now, but Sergio only tunes in as he hears something about Munich, something about Berlin; he isn’t sure he wants to hear, but those two words have triggered the memory of the score line which he was trying to repress (and it’s still infinitely better than the memories he was about to remember), so he tunes in to what his friend is saying.

“Did you see that goal though? It was ridiculous. I mean, I don't like him, but _that_ was something else…” Cris trails off, glancing at Sergio who hasn’t responded.

Sergio stares back, cogs turning in his head. Cris never seemed to shut up about Messi. Maybe that was natural. They were rivals. But still…

“You know,” he begins casually, hoping he’s wrong, “You spend a _lot_ of time moaning about him. Is there something else going on that I should know about?”

He prays he is wrong, because that would be wrong on so many levels, but Cris’ silence stretches on for just a moment too long. Sergio gapes at him, eyes wide.

“What?!” He screeches in shock. “But, but… what?” His brain doesn’t seem him capable of putting an articulate thought. This is just too weird. Cris and _Messi_ …

Cris laughs and fidgets uncomfortably. “It works for Xavi and Iker?” He offers, trying to defend himself.

“Xavi and Iker?” Sergio asks after a moment, deathly quiet.

Cris stops at the traffic lights and bursts out laughing. “Ok, that one was a joke, that _would_ be weird.” He grins.

Sergio is still confused, still struggling to form a coherent sentence. “Just… What… How long? For you, I mean.” He finally struggles out. The idea of Cristiano with the little Argentine is bizarre.

Cris smiles fondly, and although his eyes are hidden behind sunglasses, Sergio knows they are warm. “You remember the Ballon d’Or celebrations last year? I thought it would be fun to try and mess with his head. Just a bit of flirting, you know. Apparently he thought the same thing, and we spent the next six months trying to one-up each other before realising we actually liked each other. Ha, the death threats from his teammates were pretty funny. Apart from Xavi, that guy can be really creepy…” Cris shivers, and Sergio just stares at him.

He can’t believe he’s missed something this big for a year and a half, but on reflection, it’s fairly obvious. Cris has just been _happier_ since January last year, and the way the two interacted before each Clasicó has been different as well. And there’s _the photo_ as well, but he’d just assumed that had been a joke…

Sergio doesn’t know what to make of all this, so settles for silence for the remaining drive, before a question blurts out his mouth before he can think about it.

“How does it even work with the height difference?”

Cris goes bright red and splutters for a moment while Sergio sniggers at the thought. The car is quiet again, but this time it’s comfortable, and Sergio thanks the heavens some days for Cris, because there is nothing awkward between them. They’re just good friends who have each other’s backs.

Sergio quickly forgets this when they arrive at the hospital, and his happiness is doubled up with excitement, because after dreaming of this moment for three months, it’s finally here; freedom is literally minutes and metres away, and suddenly all of the negativity he’s been feeling is invalidated. It’s still hovering nearby, but for now, Sergio feels that all of his problems are irrelevant.

Reality calls as Cristiano pulls his crutches out of the back, hands them to him before pulling him upright, and they have to hobble inside at Sergio’s pace.

None of that matters though; soon enough Sergio is sat on a table, doctors working to get the cast off, and looking down, he feels cool air on his leg for the first time in what is only months but feels like forever. He thinks to himself, this, this is the feeling of freedom.

Cris stands in the corner looking at Sergio grinning, enjoying his euphoria at the removal of this deadweight. Sergio stares down at the skin (which has paled disgustingly over the last few months), and sees a scar halfway down his shin. He runs a hand over it and feels a slight raise from the surface. Sergio is silent for a few moments and Cristiano begins to worry, when he looks up at Cris and asks in all seriousness:

“Does the scar make me look tough?”

Cris laughs happily and shakes his head. Real might have lost the Champion’s League and a brilliant coach, but despite everything, Sergio hasn’t changed one bit.

Everything is going to be alright.

* * *

Fernando is sat next to Juan in his stylish Manchester flat, talking about the Premier League, old friends and mocking Chelsea, when his phone pings with a Twitter notification. He knows immediately that it's Sergio and an unconscious smile creeps onto his face; he only has notifications active for two people and he’s sitting next to one of them.

Unlocking the screen, he can’t help the grin that stretches over his face. Sergio has obviously had someone take a picture from the hospital, with his bare shin and puncture scar clearly visible. He’s grinning at the camera, thumbs-up for the camera (as always), with the caption: _‘Cast finally off! With @Cristiano, ready for physio and next season : ).’_

The tweet already has well over a thousand favourites, but Fernando decides to tap out a response. _‘Good you’re back, need help to beat @FCB. Seem to think they run Spain :P’._

He’s not expecting a response, so when his phone pings for a second time, he glances at where he left it on the coffee table and feels his heart speed up the way it always does when he talks to Sergio. Juan rolls his eyes with a smile; the two of them are so obvious it hurts. Maybe he’d had a small crush on Fernando when they were both at Chelsea, but he had quickly abandoned that with no hard feelings; it was clear there was only one person who had Fernando’s heart, even if he didn’t realise.

He gets up to make hot chocolate for the two of them; he loves England and he may live here until the day he retires, but tea will never be welcome in his house.

Fernando smiles at his friend, before reading the reply.

_‘Why would we help AM? Last match didn’t end so well :/ Ɛ==/==3’_

He can’t help the way his stomach lurches as the reminder of Sergio’s horrific injury is brought up, and he wonders how long Sergio is going to hurt over this. People say scars may fade, but the truth is that they never fully heal.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is that - *squints* - a plotline going somewhere?! Sorry for the late update, my internet has been unpredictable recently. Thank you to everyone who commented and read!

His muscles are on fire. They must be, because there is no way that walking used to be this hard. With a grunt, Sergio leans heavily on the bar at the side of the room. Panting for breath, he reaches for the water, determined not to let his arm shake as he tries not to let his legs collapse beneath him.

He’s been coming to these sessions for just over a week now, as soon as he was allowed to after his cast was removed. His physical therapist is a heavy-set man named José, and although he’s nice enough, Sergio knows he’ll force him to stop if he sees he’s in pain. He won’t understand that he has to keep going.

So carefully, he breathes in – breathes out. Takes a moment to compose his face away from José’s gaze. He then turns, and wobbling only slightly, strides confidently across the room. His leg turns to jelly as he reaches the other side and he almost falls over, before strong, confident arms steady him, lowering him gently to the floor, whispering reassurances; “It’s ok, I’ve got you, Sese…”

Sergio finds it incredible at times like these that anyone can dislike Iker; he is a genuinely good person. He hasn't been able to come to every session; Iker is getting older but he’s still a brilliant goalkeeper, and Madrid still calls his name, Spain still chants for San Iker to save the day. International break is coming soon, and Iker has still been going to regular training sessions - De Gea is giving him competition for first choice goalkeeper for the first time in more than a decade, and Iker has been determined not to let him take his place this year. 

Sergio knows he won’t get a call-up this time and has had a while to reconcile himself with this fact, but it’s still disappointing. He dreams of setting a record for European international caps, and setbacks like these, he thinks, glaring at his leg, do not help.

Determined not to give up for today yet, he struggles to his feet once again, his leg once again threatening to give way. He ignores the pain, closes his eyes, and just focuses on standing and breathing for a moment. Sergio is strongly aware that pushing too hard too fast will only push him back in recovery, but he needs this. It scares him how quickly his muscles have deteriorated, and he swears to never let himself get to this stage again.

He misses the knowing look shared between his captain and José, but knows that this road will be long and hard; he has to make good progress at the beginning to help his team faster. If he pushes himself now, it’ll pay off in the long run.

So once again, he stumbles clumsily across the room.

* * *

When Fernando rings the doorbell of Sergio’s house with a visitor, he isn’t expecting anyone to answer the door and he already has his spare key out, when the door swings open to reveal Sergio, hair still damp from a shower. His friend looks worn out but is still standing independently, no crutches in sight. He greets Fernando in the way he does everyone these days, with a tired smile and a kiss on the cheek (and it hurts to realise that he is treated the same as everyone else), before noticing his companion. 

The blood drains from his face, and he stiffens, as if resisting the urge to run; Fernando notices the way his foot automatically twitches back. His smile is so forced Fernando is worried he’ll break his jaw, and a look of overwhelming panic is filling his eyes. 

And although Fernando had expected a stiff reaction to the presence of Mario Mandžukić at Sergio’s front door, he hadn’t expected the terror he can practically feel from his best friend as he tries not to bolt, to appear nonchalant to the arrival of the physical manifestation of his nightmare.

Mario scratches the back of his head awkwardly. His Spanish really isn’t very good, but he tries anyway.

“I am, uh, very sorry, about your leg, Sergio,” He stutters out awkwardly, “I got angry, and- you understand? I see you do it as well, to players.” He offers an awkward smile and Fernando panics; that has to top the list of things _not_ to say to Sergio.

The forced smile is instantly dropped, and Sergio snarls at him, Fernando and Mario both automatically shifting back a step. Fernando can still recognise Sergio’s fear, but it’s momentarily forgotten, overwhelmed and overcome by his rage.

“You cost me six months of my career, La Liga, the Champion’s League, because you got angry?” He yells incredulously. “No, I don’t understand! I would never, ever, hurt somebody for the sake of it, you sick _fucker_.” He hisses out the last word, and Fernando is worried; this is a side of Sergio he’s never seen before, not even when his friends or family are threatened. The Sergio before him seems desperate and lashing out in self-defence; Fernando hates it. Sergio has always been the stronger of the two of them, and this is heart-breaking to see.

He turns away from the pair; “Get him off my property. If I see him again, I’m calling the police and getting a restraining order.” Sergio retreats into his house without closing the door, a noticeable limp now present as Fernando watches.

Fernando turns to Mario, and has to take a deep breath not to punch the man. “Mario, it’s best if you leave now. I’ll see you at training.” He doesn’t wait for a response and follows Sergio inside the house, slamming the door behind him.

He listens carefully from the hallway, and hears a quiet sniffle; he follows the sound to the dining room, and finds Sergio leaning on the table, his back to him, shaking slightly. The silence is terrifying; Sergio has always been the first to crack a joke, hum a song, tell a story. Fernando can’t remember a silence like this in the presence of Sergio.

Well, except for once; when he told him he was going to England. He still remembers the lost expression on his face, the hurt clouding his eyes like a thunderstorm, and that suffocating, dead silence; but he’d broken that one quickly as well, making a joke about how Fernando would lose his sense of taste within hours of arrival. The smile had been painful, and Fernando had hated how he had tried to laugh it off, but he’d laughed along because the alternative was worse, even if the forced laughter had died quickly.

Reflecting, he realises that Sergio needs noise and a joke like he needs oxygen, because he can’t smile if no one else is. But even more, so that no one can see what’s really going on in his eyes behind the laughter.

He goes to lay a hand on his shoulder, and the reaction is instantaneous.

Sergio spins round, shoving his hand away, no trace of the anger left on his face; only that horribly unfamiliar fear is left behind, and Fernando realises he’s made a big mistake by bringing the Croatian here. He’s never seen his friend respond like this. This is wrong, and it’s worse because Fernando knows he is responsible.

He raises his hands in apology, and tries to explain, “Sergio, I’m so sorry. He told me he wanted to apologise, I thought he was serious, I didn’t think you’d react like that-”

Sergio lets out a hysterical laugh: “How did you think I’d react? Offer him a hot drink and a cake for breaking my leg? Jesus Christ!” He sinks into a chair by the table and lays his head in his hands.

Fernando is uncomfortably aware of the silence which descends, and for the first time, he has no idea how to break it; things were always easy with him and Sergio, but they – he –had let their relationship stretch as wide as the Mediterranean which had separated them for so many years, and now he doesn't know how to pull them back together again.

For a moment, he contemplates stopping, letting himself sink like a stone. It’s what he’s done to Sergio, and their fates have always been tied together.

“You know, Nando, you leaving was the most painful thing that ever happened to me.” Sergio mumbles from the table, and Fernando stops his self-pity, because that might be the crumbling of impenetrable walls he can hear behind the words, and although it hurts to tear them down, they both know they need this; the deafening silence has stretched on for far too long, and one needs to speak, while the other has to understand what he’s done.

“I gave you everything I possibly could to make you stay. And I can’t blame you for going, I guess I really should have expected it. I don’t know, I just assumed we were different. And after you went, there was a period where I just… shut people out. I pretended to be happy; I got very good at pretending. I even fooled myself for a while.” He lets out a humourless chuckle and looks up at Fernando, who is frozen to the spot. The pain in Sergio’s eyes, which now he realises was always there burning under the surface but is just now coming into the spotlight, is deep and awful, cracked down to his soul, and he wants to cry at what he’s done to the man sitting before him.

“You were the first one I let all the way in; you saw all of me, even when you didn’t, and I _thought_ I saw all of you. And when you left, you took part of me with you.” Sergio has to stop and swallow past the lump in his throat; Fernando can feel the cement blocks of his mistakes chained around his ankles as he tries to breathe in past his guilt. “That hurt. I learnt from that. Nobody else was allowed in as deep as you were. Iker got close…” He stops, looks down at the table, and continues in a choked voice, “But I couldn’t let him see my heart. There was no way, because somebody else had already gouged their name in, and the scars were still bleeding.”

Sergio’s eyes are bloodshot, and Fernando knows that Sergio hates crying in front of others, remembers him like the back of his hand (how could he ever forget?).

Suddenly, Fernando knows what he has to do. His feet move of their own accord and he pulls Sergio up before pressing their lips together, and it suddenly feels as if every moment since he was a teenager shining in the Madrid sun has been building to this, to the synchronisation of their heartbeats, the perfect moment where neither man needs words as everything they are, were, and will be coalesces into the fireworks in his stomach.

Moving back slightly, their noses still touching, he presses his forehead to Sergio’s and whispers, “I messed up, and I can’t begin to say how sorry I am. Let me be yours again, as you were always mine.”

Sergio is staring into his eyes, into his soul, and Fernando feels exposed, every dark corner of his being illuminated under Sergio’s gaze. But he knows that he would give everything he has to heal the wounds of his Sergio and be forgiven, and Sergio must see this too, as he pulls Fernando back into another kiss.

Because they’ve always belonged to each other, even if it took them far too long to realise it.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, holy crap, I'm so sorry. What with school ending, pervasive writer's block, bizarre bouts of depression and then Iker, I didn't know how to write this chapter. The next chapter is the last, but I just have to edit it so it won't take long.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who left a comment or kudos, you guys are too fabulous :D
> 
> Also, for the purposes of this fic, Iker is staying exactly where he should ALWAYS be. My coping mechanism for him is basically flat-out denial. Anyway, enjoy :)

Sitting next to Fernando in the Real Madrid recovery facility, Iker can honestly say he is amazed. He was gone for _two weeks_ touring around Australia and Asia, and if it wasn’t for the ugly scar on his leg and bloody memories of jagged bone, Iker wouldn’t believe it if someone told him that Sergio had injured himself so badly.

Watching him joyfully bounce on a trampoline, Iker feels a level of content he hasn’t felt for a while, since before Real’s Champion’s League exit and the churning of the transfer rumours started spitting out his name again (he hadn’t even listened to the ones about Sergio; those were just ridiculous).

“Hey, Fer, watch this!” Iker focuses on Sergio even though he wasn’t called, in time to see Sergio _almost_ manage to spin all the way around on the trampoline and stumble on landing. Fernando chuckles at his antics, and it’s a warm, melodious sound. Iker can see how Sergio fell in love; the two of them are like perfect harmonies on a piano. He briefly wonders if the two ever sorted things out, but his thoughts are interrupted by the physiotherapist.

“Ramos! Stop mucking about! I told you to be sensible or you’re back on the treadmill.” He scowled as he returned to his office. Sergio sticks his tongue out at his back, and Iker can’t help sniggering. How did someone so immature make vice-captain?

The creaking of the trampoline begins again, and Iker returns to his thoughts, watching Fernando’s face out of the corner of his eye. The striker is watching Sergio happily, and there’s none of the weariness in his face which Iker has become so used to seeing in recent years. Sergio has seemed happier as well since Iker returned, and he can’t help wondering whether it has something to do with Fernando, and the way that the pair is suddenly inseparable. Iker decides not to mention it; he has his suspicions, but whatever is making the two of them so happy can only be a good thing. It really isn’t any of his business.

He makes a mental note to remind Sergio to be careful. And possibly threaten Fernando with physical pain. His nene has already suffered enough.

* * *

_**Ramos ready to rumble** _

_Dani Rodriguez, 8th of August 2015 16:09_

_Real Madrid defender, Sergio Ramos, was seen back in training with the first team earlier today. The Sevillan suffered an open compound fracture back in April after a disastrous tackle from Mario Mandžukić, and had the cast removed at the beginning of July. Reportedly, Ramos pushed himself through an intensive course of physiotherapy, and I’ll happily be the first to label this a miracle recovery. Although it’s obvious that he is nowhere ready to play matches yet, the fact he is back on the pitch at all is a sign of Ramos’ remarkable physical and mental resilience. Players have had to end their careers from this type of injury before; David Busst, the former Coventry defender suffered a similar injury and ended his career prematurely._

_Whether Ramos can reach his former brilliance is yet to be seen, but any return at all will surely be a boost to the moral of a miserable-looking Madrid team, who have recently returned from a successful pre-season tour. Although flashes of brilliance were seen in the 4-1 thrashing of Manchester City, other performances were uninspiring. Perhaps the return of the vice-captain will help return Real to their former glory, although it is unlikely he will feature in the early stages of the season._

_On a side note, it appears David De Gea is set to stay in Manchester for the next season. The Red Devils seem keen to hang on to their keeper, and are reluctant to sell the player for what they deem such a disrespectable quantity, although interest in Ramos is reported to remain high, despite his injury. Whether the player will move is another matter; fans are divided in opinion. The defender’s agent has stated a dissatisfaction that he hasn’t been offered a new contract, but many believe Ramos is too important to the club for them to let him leave._

_Fortunately for Real, long-time captain, Iker Casillas, has stated his intent to stay at his childhood club. His response to transfer rumours was brief and cryptic, stating only that, “there are still people here who need me. Until they don’t need me anymore, I’ll be wearing a crown on my chest.”_

* * *

Fernando is curled up on Sergio’s sofa with his laptop when he hears the front door unlock. Worry has been gnawing at his insides, and it all intensifies at the clicking sound of the key in the lock. He’s about to get the truth, and he’s scared of what he might find out. 

He puts his laptop aside, and stands up, stretching out his legs. Sergio steps into his own living room, and spots Fernando, his mouth automatically stretching into an uncontrollable smile. Which fades when he sees the way Fernando still has his arms crossed, a frown etched on his face.

Fernando takes a deep breath. He really doesn’t want to do this, but Sergio's face is expectant and anxious. 

“Is it true?” He finally asks. Sergio frowns in confusion at him.

“What? Is what true?” He replies, a faint undertone of worry in his voice becoming obvious.

“The rumours. Are you leaving Madrid?” _Are you leaving me?_ He hopes the hidden message isn’t too obvious.

Sergio stares at him for a moment, before smiling and crossing the room and pulling him into his arms. His warmth is some comfort, but Fernando needs to hear the answer out loud. He pulls back, and searches Sergio’s eyes, looking for an answer, needing to find _something_ …

Sergio looks back, and his eyes crinkle at the corners with a smile. “How could I ever leave Madrid? Iker would never be able to handle the rest of those idiots on his own.” 

Fernando can feel warmth spreading from his heart again as the worry disperses, but Sergio hasn’t finished.

“And besides,” he murmurs, “why would I leave you, when I spent seven years waiting for you to come back?” He gently kisses Fernando on the forehead, and Fernando didn’t realise it was possible to fall so far in love. He pulls Sergio’s mouth to his own, and kisses him until he runs out of breath. Breaking away, (and making sure he remembers every perfect detail, the crazy rhythm of his heart, the way Sergio is gasping, the feel of his love’s hair between his fingers, the love he can see reflecting back at him from the most gorgeous brown eyes he’s ever seen) there’s only one thought repeating in his head.

“I think I might be in love with you.” Fernando says with a smile, knowing that he doesn't need to hear it said back; that he's already seen it in Sergio's eyes and smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because Sergio Ramos on a trampoline is the best thing in the world. :)  
> http://www.mirror.co.uk/sport/row-zed/sergio-ramos-makes-injury-rehab-5197645


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter! This is the first time I've ever felt motivated enough to finish something like this, so thank you so much to everyone who left kudos or commented on a chapter.
> 
> Posted early in celebration of Sergio finally sorting out his new contract with RM! I never thought he'd leave, but it's still a massive relief after Iker. Enjoy, and leave me a comment if you enjoyed reading :)

_Sunday 4th October, 19:34_

Sergio stares at the date on his phone display numbly, before locking it and placing it in his kit bag. Here he is at last. About to make his first full start in a competitive match since April.

(He is _not_ going to acknowledge the way his hands are shaking.)

The dressing room is empty as everyone else has gone to warm up on the pitch. Cris had winked at him as he’d left, Iker had sent him a questioning glance before following him. And now he is alone with the knowledge that the same two teams from six months ago are waiting for him on the pitch. Even with Iker and Nando, he’s not sure he can do this. But maybe that’s best; maybe this is something he has to do alone.

Sergio pulls himself up (triumphant for just a moment that there’s no pain in his leg), and moves to the mirror on the opposite wall. Staring at himself, he thinks that he looks _almost_ the same as he usually does. But there’s something else too, and Sergio doesn’t want to admit what it is. Because it’s something he’s tried to suppress for a long, long time. Because admitting it exists is a weakness, and he’s always strived to be the strongest man in the room.

Because admitting that he’s scared is terrifying in itself; his heart starts to race, and not in the fun way that happens with Fernando.

The darkness in his eyes seems a lot bigger all of a sudden. He can feel his nails digging painfully into his palms, and the shadows in the corners are filled with the nightmare figures that have plagued his dreams for the last six months, figures draped in red and white stripes.

What if he’s not the same player as before? What if he gets hurt again, and his career _is_ over? What if Real Madrid doesn’t want him when they see that he’s so pathetic; poor, stupid Sergio, who can overcome a broken bone, but not his own fears? What if _Nando_ doesn’t want him when he sees how weak he is? A million scenarios are hurtling around his brain, and suddenly his throat’s closing up and breathing is impossible – 

The hand on his shoulder grounds him, and as his eyes snap back into focus, Sergio sees there are now two figures in the mirror as the man is joined by a saint. 

His eyes prickling, Sergio meets Iker’s gaze in the mirror, and there’s nothing but assurance and security looking back at him. He falls into the arms of his best friend, and realises it isn’t just goals that Iker saves.

Sergio doesn’t have the words for his gratitude, and neither does Iker, but it doesn’t matter; the two of them don’t need words to understand each other anymore.

* * *

Iker stands between his goal posts, and considers his life choices up until this point. He loves his position, but it’s frustrating as hell trying to see what’s going on at the other end of the pitch. Scratch that. It’s even worse when he _can_ see, and someone makes a mistake. Like the way Pepe just kicked the ball _straight_ at Tiago. Is it really that hard to _pass to your own team?_ Luckily for Iker’s sanity, the ball falls at the feet of Cristiano.

Iker doesn’t have a watch, but he knows there isn’t long left in the match. The score line is sitting at a dull 1-0 to Real, and the match has mostly been ticking away in the midfield. Neither team wants to make a mistake; Barcelona are sitting at the top of the league. A win for Real would take them to joint first, and a loss for Atlético would see them drop five points behind. Both teams clearly have this in mind, both playing cautious, defensive football. 

Sergio is standing twenty-five yards away from him, the lone defender, watching the tussle at the other end of the pitch as Cris tries to get the ball past all four Atléti defenders at once.

Obviously it doesn’t work. (Would it have killed him to pass to Gareth? There was no one around him. For fuck’s sake…)

Iker almost groans as Griezmann and Fernando sprint up the pitch, easily passing Pepe and Marcelo on the counterattack, with only Sergio left between them and himself. The defender had been cautious throughout the match, so different to his usual self; even now Iker can see the way his body has tensed with anxiety. If Iker is honest with himself, Real were extremely lucky not to have conceded a goal. He’d pulled off a couple of good saves, but his reflexes weren’t perfect anymore, and he really needed Sergio back.

Griezmann is close now, and he crosses the ball to Fernando just outside the box. Fernando runs in, pulls his boot back, and Iker gets ready to react, his view blocked by Sergio…

Only to watch in wonder as the ball soars back down the pitch. Sergio pulls himself to his feet, grinning like his face might split, and looks at Fernando, and then Iker incredulously. Iker honestly can’t remember feeling more proud, and he runs forward to hug Sergio for a moment, before pushing him down the pitch with a wink. Fernando looks somewhere between extremely pissed off and proud, and Iker laughs as the game plays on.

And just like that, the defender is back. Sure, he isn’t perfect yet; some of his tackles will be mistimed, sometimes he’ll hesitate for a moment too long, sometimes not long enough. It will take time before everything is better again. 

But whatever happens, Iker knows that the Sergio who leaves the pitch this evening will be different to the one who stepped on at the start. And nothing – not even those loveable idiots that he calls a team, finally getting their shit together - could make him happier.

* * *

The final whistle blows, and Fernando can’t really feel anything but disappointment. He’d been doing so well recently, scoring goals semi-consistently again; he finally felt comfortable on a football pitch for the first time since leaving Liverpool, and now he had failed his team when they needed him. Sighing, he glances over at the celebrating huddle of _blancos_ , and the sight of the black number four standing out against the grass-stained white automatically pulls at the corners of his mouth. 

He curses to himself; why can’t Sergio just let him be miserable for once? He was determined to be disappointed a moment ago, and just the thought of the man is making him smile.

Fernando had never believed in any of that soulmate crap. His life followed patterns and rules, and the idea of one person being perfect for only one other was so random and unpredictable. But then he’d met Sergio who was never content to fit into his patterns, who was perfect for him and then so much more. 

Smiling to himself and looking at the smile on Sergio Ramos’ face like the sun has just come out, Fernando thinks that if there are soulmates, then he has definitely found his.

He makes for the direction of the tunnel before he’s stopped by an excitable looking British woman in a khaki trench coat. 

“Fernando! Great game. Can we get a quick interview for Sky Sports?”

He sighs, before smiling tiredly at the woman, ever gracious, and walks to the side of the pitch where the cameraman is waiting. 

* * *

Sergio watches Fernando walk away for an interview, and feels an itch to run after him. He looks over at Iker who is caught up with the team celebrations, smiling like he should and deserves too more often. He looks at Cris, and sees that he is looking back. The tall striker winks at him and makes a shooing motion with his hand, as though he knows what Sergio is going to do; Sergio really wishes he’d share, because he has no idea.

But that’s not how he works; he always tries to live in the moment, and so he jogs across the pitch to where he can see Fernando talking to a reporter. He’s still beaming from the euphoria of the win, and he just wants to make everyone smile back.

“Sergio? What are you doing?” Fernando asks him, catching sight of his smile and momentarily distracted from his interview, and Sergio has to stop for a moment. What is he doing? And he realises, he has no idea. But when has that ever stopped him before?

Sergio leans forward and kisses Fernando. On live TV. 

Fernando melts into the kiss, and Sergio vaguely realises that the reporter is still standing there with her microphone, slack-jawed but beaming. He vaguely realises that doesn’t matter when the most beautiful man in the world is standing in front of him.

There’s a part of his brain screaming; the internet is going to explode, and there’ll be all kinds of abuse. There’s no way the clubs will take this lightly; or his family for that matter. But what he could lose is inconsequential to what he could have, and Sergio never did like to overthink things. Things will happen as they will, and maybe there will be haters, but Sergio has Fernando. Nothing else really matters.

For the first time in nearly eight years, Sergio can honestly say that he is happy in the purest and best sense of the word. There’s no doubt in his mind, no bitterness or anger or sadness. He’s happy, and that’s all.


End file.
